Laughing, Moldark stepped on my back, holding me there. The tip of his blade pressed against my shoulder, stabbing through my cloak. Another push and it would break skin.
“When King Umbert’s soldier tells you to halt, you halt, boy.”
Dressed in trousers with my hair stuffed under Xavier’s old cloak, I looked like a skinny young boy rather than a girl of seventeen. But the sound of my voice would give me away at the first word, so I held my tongue.
He replaced his boot with a knee. He grabbed the back of my head with his free hand, forcing it to the side so he could get a look at my face.
His matted hair fell into his eyes. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
That your breath smells like you licked a pig’s ass, I thought, but I refrained. When I remained mute, he shoved my face into the mud, making it impossible for me to breathe. I thrashed, but he pushed harder.
“That’ll teach you . . .”
Somehow, my hand found the dagger in my boot.
He shifted, his foot moving forward to maintain balance. Before he knew what hit him, I stabbed right through his boot, feeling the blade grind down until it broke through the hard leather sole.
“Ah! Ya little bastard!” He fell backward, dropping his sword to yank the knife out with two hands.
I scrambled to get up, but my hands and knees slipped in the muck. Then another soldier stepped on my back, pinning me again. More soldiers circled, making escape difficult. At least I could breathe.
“What is this ruckus about?” someone said from behind me. “Moldark, I gave you specific instructions. That draignoch must be taken to the Walled City. Now. You don’t have time for . . . whatever this is.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Moldark wave my knife. “This urchin stabbed me in the foot with an illegal blade, Prince Jori.”
Illegal, it was, because none in the Hinterlands were allowed to carry weapons. Otherwise, we might rise up, defend ourselves from the king’s stinking soldiers. All of which I would’ve said, but then they would know I was a woman, and likely cut my tongue out before selling me to a brothel. Silence was certainly the preferable option.
But what was the prince doing in the Hinterlands? Prince Jori was the only child of King Umbert and heir to the throne, and the only one likely, for the king was a perpetual widower, having lost four wives to fever, with all but one of the marriages ending childless. None in the Hinterlands had ever seen the prince. He was born after the wall was put up around the city.
A draignoch, Phantombronze, and the prince all in one day? I would consider myself lucky—if I wasn’t about to lose my head.
“I see,” the prince said. “Tell me, why exactly did he stab you?”
“Because I caught him near the draignoch’s cage. When I told him to halt, he ran. Thought he could outrun me.” Moldark chuckled. Some of the men joined in. “I tossed him to the ground and stepped on him like the worthless bug he is, just like Sir Raleigh is right now.”
The boot holding me down shifted. “And yet he managed to retrieve his knife and stab you through your boot,” Sir Raleigh said. His accent was different from the others’. Lilting and muffled, as if speaking in a hurry. I only ever heard that kind of accent once before, from a boy I met who came down from the North. The one place Xavier and I had yet to travel.
“Deserves a pat on the back for that,” Raleigh added.
The men all laughed.
“He slashed a king’s soldier. Law commands his striking hand forfeit,” Moldark hissed.
My heart hammered against my chest. What would Xavier do with a one-handed assistant? If I survived at all. This was what I got for being impulsive. I’d had to see the draignoch.
And yet, as I pondered my demise, there was no regret. My encounter with the beast was . . . right.
The boot relaxed. A strong pair of hands slid into my armpits and hauled me off the ground like I weighed nothing. Simultaneously, two more grabbed my arms. Keeping my head down, I struggled, twisting and turning my wrists to get loose, to no avail.
Sir Raleigh came to stand before me. Unlike the others, who wore red, Sir Raleigh’s leather armor was black. Dark circles underlined his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in years. The remnant brown hair ringing his balding head was dusted with gray, while his tangled beard was snow white.
“Moldark is right, sire,” Raleigh replied as if he were giving permission to feed me cake, rather than cut off my hand. “Idle hands make for mischief. Should be working rather than looking at things he shouldn’t be looking at.”
“Teach him to go back to the farm and stay there,” another said, adding to my fate.
The prince said nothing.
“The king calls for swift justice,” Raleigh pressed.
My eyes lifted to his hand that gripped the pommel of his sword.
“Is that so?” Prince Jori answered, sounding unconvinced.
Did I dare hope that he would let me go? Xavier always said I was a foolish girl. Curious beyond all measure. And it was hard not to look at the prince, but I couldn’t risk it.
I stared instead at his impossibly clean fingernails resting on his sword belt.
“Before we cut off his hand, perhaps we should hear from him. Ask him what happened,” Prince Jori said. “What do you say?”
I shook my head.
“Come now.” His hand appeared beneath my chin, tilting my head up, forcing me to look at him. His soft brown eyes surveyed mine. His long fair hair was pulled back. Not a single scar marred his handsome face. He wore smooth red leather trousers, a red knee-length cloak outlined in silver medallions, all of which were branded with the letter U like the soldiers’ tunics. His belt carried a scabbard that housed a sword with a polished brass five-lobed pommel. A very expensive weapon.
He leaned over to whisper in my ear. “I cannot defend you unless you tell me your side of it.”
The prince’s tone took me by surprise. Asking where he should be demanding. Was he unsure of himself? Afraid of his own men? Or was it compassion? I almost laughed at the ludicrous thought. No matter. I ripped my chin from his hand, shaking my head no.
A crease formed between the prince’s brow as he continued to study my face for far too long. He let out a resigned sigh that Sir Raleigh took as a signal to go ahead.
“Hold him still.” Sir Raleigh slid his sword out and raised it over his head.
The soldiers stretched my arms so wide it felt as if they were being ripped from the sockets.
Moldark licked his split lips. “I get to feed his hand to the beast.”
Not today. My plan was simple and stupid. Kick the ankle bones of the soldiers holding me and run like hell. But I didn’t have to.
The draignoch roared. She threw a fit so loud the banging could be heard a hundred yards away. The whiny tilt followed by the earth-rattling crash was unmistakable. The cage had fallen over.
“Help!” Perig screeched.
The soldiers’ grips loosened. I jerked, then kicked one soldier in the back of the knee. He fell forward, landing on Moldark.
I tore my knife from his hand and slashed the soldier holding on to my other wrist.
The soldier cursed, letting go.
And then I ran, as fast as I could.
Sprinting through the trees, I glanced over my shoulder every few seconds to see if they were following, but no one came, not at first anyway. They were too busy with the draignoch. Her distraction had saved me.